Clem Kingford was more than just some fence or peddler. He was a broker. A negotiator. An entrepreneur. He had pure, Gizmeren blood flowing in his veins with a family line that could be traced back to their homeworld within the last six generations. With pale blue skin, black hair, a thick black beard and strikingly blue eyes, he was the very picture of a noble Gizmeren.
His people who still lived on Gizmere, the third planet from the sun, were mostly known for their legendary legions of berserking soldiers who dominated battlefields across the Fogum’s Forge star system. However, what many others seemed to overlook was the fact that Gizmerens were also known for their business acumen and booming black markets. If one knew where to look or who to talk to, they could get practically anything on Gizmere. For the right price.
This meant that Clem’s nose virtually evolved to sniff out a good deal. His eyes were honed and conditioned to seek out opportune bargains. He knew a good investment when he saw one.
And Thode Stoolbottom was a good investment. For now.
The clockwinder was late, but he could forgive tardiness for the right price. Clem would be sure to claim interest on his wasted time. After all, he was one of Arcwatch’s five plutocrats, the true rulers of the city. He’d carved out his own personal kingdom through ruthless takeovers, buyouts and coups when necessary. Oh, he wasn’t the most powerful Tinker in the city, not by a long shot.
But, he was one of the richest. And that was a power in and of itself.
Clem lightly pressed each of his metallic fingers to his thumb, summoning a series of light projections onto the far wall of his sitting room. From here, he could monitor the activity from all around his territory through a series of film cameras attached to light posts and the tops of buildings.
He watched as a lone monowheel sped across the dividing line that marked outer Arcwatch. Clem pressed his forefinger to his thumb and the projections shifted to another crowded street.
Arcwatch was the melting pot of Crankedge, though the pot boiled over long ago. And Crankedge itself was the dumping ground for the rest of Fogum’s Forge. The other worlds’ castaways and renegades immigrated to the farthest world in the system for one reason or another. And usually none of them were good.
That being said, the streets of outer Arcwatch, otherwise known as the Crumbles, overflowed with warm bodies crammed into tiny apartments that were little better than tin shoeboxes. They were easy to pile high, one faulty, mismatched crate above another, until they towered high above the outer district’s rusted streets. Dilapidated stairs were built in between piles of derelict buildings with tarnished metallic bridges switchbacking from one decrepit hovel to the next.
Regardless of how chaotic it may have looked to an outsider, these slums of outer Arcwatch were Clem’s home, his kingdom. There were CCs to be had in those ramshackle hovels. And he knew from experience that sometimes he needed the dross of society to sift through piles of refuse like raccoons finding buried nuggets of treasure in a trash heap.
The lad coming in had become one of his best wee raccoons in the last few months.
Clem only had a flitting interest in where the lad was getting these valuables, but truthfully, he didn’t care. He gave the kid less than half of what they were worth, then sold them to his shops in central Arcwatch for three times their value. He didn’t bother with middle Arcwatch, that ring of the city was heavily contested by two other plutocrats. But central Arcwatch was free game. While the last pair of plutocrats made the most, Clem and the others had their own hustles within the city’s center.
His projections continued to switch, following the lad around sharp turns and under crumbling overhangs, until he stopped in front of a pair of reinforced brassteel doors nearly two paces thick — Clem’s compound. A series of clocks chimed beside Clem and he pressed his pinky to his thumb to open the gates.
Time to see what my little raccoon brought me this time…
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Thode stood nervously in a cluttered sitting room filled with stacks of hard drives, bound tomes with rusty iron covers and clocks. Lots and lots of clocks. Two fraggin’ walls filled with clocks of every shape and size. Circular, oblong, rectangular, square. Even a rhomboid or two.
The Gizmeren’s high-backed throne, since that was the only word for it, was made of two grandfather clocks that loomed above Clem Kingford’s squat, muscular form. His metallic arms were obviously two separate Gears and, if Thode’s Multi-Monocle was to be believed, were both Anthracite-level.
As far as Thode could tell, Clem only had those two Gears, but for them to be that high quality meant that the Gizmeren could tussle with Gearlords and Gearkings if need be without actually being ranked as one of them.
Clem’s right arm was made of coiled ribbons of stainless low steel that made it look like his entire arm had been skillfully sculpted by a master artisan. It was a perfect replica of what an arm should look like, only it had a shiny metallic coat.
Meanwhile, his left arm was just a segmented lump of dark iron. A pair of exhaust pipes stuck out of the oversized pauldron on his shoulder as overlapping iron plates covered his upper arm and forearm, making the whole limb almost comically large.
Thode was certain the Gizmeren could crush him with either arm.
In front of Clem’s grandfather-clock throne lay a heavy wooden table with dark copper legs that held an assortment of items on top. They were the sum total of Thode’s last few ruin runs into his hidden Gearmonger catacombs.
He kept the most useful bits in the canisters attached to his monocycle. As for the rest, he hoped to fence to Clem. He knew he was getting ripped off, but anything worthwhile that anyone in the Crumbles sold would eventually pass through the Gizmeren’s cold metallic hands. There was no way around it. It’s not like he could just waltz into middle Arcwatch and start selling his wares. That’s not how the city worked.
Meanwhile, pretty much anyone could live in the Crumbles. And no one of importance cared about them. There weren’t even police out here.
But middle Arcwatch? The working class lived there. Shopkeepers. Craftsmen. People who were skilled in a trade and had paid for a license to operate by the city’s government. That was the real slaggin’ kicker. The license alone was worth more than Thode pulled in from ruin runs in a whole year. How was anyone in the Crumbles expected to save up for that, especially when they still had to live?
Thode was barely two steps ahead of starving. The catacombs he’d been delving may have given him a steadier stream of CCs than he’d had in a long time, but who knew how much longer it would last. He needed a new Gear piece soon, so he could start exploring more powerful Gearmonger ruins and have a chance at a truly worthwhile payday.
Clem Kingford represented his best shot at that.
The Gizmeren put down a partially rusted brassteel warhammer with a rotting leather handle. Its cogs and springs needed cleaning and oiling, but it was a perfectly serviceable Gadget for any decent Tinker.
Then, Clem picked up another item from Thode’s haul, this one was a tri-barreled revolver that could rotate through three different elements. It, too, needed some repairs, but it was a valuable Gadget. Thode had another in his canisters that he was planning on dismantling and reproducing.
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Slowly and methodically, Clem inspected the items Thode brought to sell. It took as long as it needed to for the Gizmeren to finish and Thode stood there anxiously the entire time, quiet as a mouse.
Eventually, Clem settled back in his grandfather-clock throne, staring at Thode over steepled metallic fingers. “You did good, lad. Real good. Now, this,” Clem reached forward and moved one of the Gadgets to the side, “I’m takin’ cause you made me wait. And nobody makes me wait, fair?”
What was Thode going to say? No? The Gizmeren could kill him with the flick of his wrist. So he just nodded.
“Dynamo! Now, these…” Clem waved his oversized dark iron hand over the rest of the items, “I can pay you for.”
Tapping his metal fingers together in a specific sequence, Thode suddenly heard a chirp from the display on his left wrist and looked down at the sum of money that was just deposited into his bank account. He gave a low whistle. This was more than he expected.
“You like that, don’t you? Well, think of it as a down payment ‘cause I’ve got a proposition for you,” Clem offered, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his throne.
Thode quirked an eyebrow, curious about the opportunity, “What do I have to do?”
“You’ve been a good little raccoon these last few months and I’d like you to be even better. I have an auction coming up for my customers in central Arcwatch and I need to fill it with high quality items that would interest their discerning tastes. I’ve got other delvers that have proven themselves to be competent hunters out in the wilds, searching for treasures for me to auction. So this is your chance to really impress me. If you do, then you’ll earn yourself an actual delver’s commission. What do you think about that?”
“How long do I have?” Thode asked calmly, holding back his excitement.
“The auction is in seven months, but I’ll need all the items that’re gonna be sold within six. My people need time to polish them up and ready them for sale.”
Thode crossed his arms in thought, his mind already having been made up, “Six months? I can do that…I can definitely do that.”
Clem tapped a metallic middle finger to his thumb and the doors behind Thode rumbled open, “Good to see such an enterprising lad. Now go, it’s late and I’m sure you have plans to make. I look forward to what you bring me, Stoolbottom.”
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“So it’s you then, is it? What’ll it be, lad?” asked Smitty, an old Paraburnese man from behind a jagged slab of iron that served as the bartop. With a face like worn leather and mostly gray hair with wispy green streaks, Thode had been sneaking into Smitty’s bar since he was a teenager. Back then, he was still getting used to his prosthetic legs. More often than not he stumbled in sober and had to get dragged out drunk.
“Hey, Smitty. I’ll take a shot of sling and a mug of grog,” he called while passing by the bar and moving to his usual corner spot. The weathered wooden chair creaked as he sat down at a round, low brass table that needed a good polishing. He felt naked without any of his Gadgets on him, but Smitty didn’t take kindly to weapons in his bar, so Thode left them all on his monocycle.
Smitty and his bar were old even when Thode was just a wee lad. He swore the rustbucket stayed standing through sheer piss and ale.
The bar itself was on the third floor of a mid-level stack of boxy tenements and was considered ‘load-bearing,’ which meant that the whole barroom literally helped to hold up the rest of the apartment sheds above it. The walls were made of thick dark iron and had been patched over the years with newer reinforcing plates, so they ended up looking like a patchwork of metal squares. For Hanged Gods’ sake, Thode had helped put some of them up throughout the years.
Outer Arcwatch was called the Crumbles because when people built their apartments too high, the lower ones physically crumbled under the added pressure. The best and safest stacks of apartment sheds were those that had load-bearing tenements littered within their pile, making Smitty’s bar very literally a pillar of the community. Despite that, the bar had less than a dozen people in it.
A trio of Noxdennite avians were playing cards at one of the larger tables in the room. Plumed feathers lined their heads around their traditionally metallic beaked masks that allowed them to breathe in all kinds of climates. Every Noxdennite Thode had ever met or seen wore similar masks that covered their faces and beady eyes. But that wasn’t the oddest part about their race. No, the oddest thing about Noxdennites was that they were all females. Most couldn’t tell because they tended to drape their wings over their shoulders like capes to cover up their clothes and bodies, but Thode had gone drinking with a few avians before.
A knee-high mechanized tank toy with a single tread and a cup holder on top interrupted his observation as it trundled over to bring him his drinks. “Thanks, Slick,” he said to the small machine. He’d named it that when he was a kid, though Smitty never actually called it anything.
With one practiced motion, Thode plopped the shot of sling into his mug of grog, the top of it frothing in a chemical reaction that he didn’t care about, then downed the entire thing in a breath and a half.
Bliss…he thought to himself with a satisfied sigh. Then he pointed a finger up towards the ceiling and twirled it. Another round.
He wasn’t worried that Smitty didn’t see his order. Smitty always saw every order from anywhere in his bar. The old man wore a pair of glasses with a thick low copper frame with intricate lines of Fluxcode etched on the sides that led to slightly tinted lenses. They were a very niche, standard-grade Gadget. Even though Smitty himself wasn’t a Tinker and had no assimilated Gear pieces on his body, he could still use Gadgets just as long as he had a charging station.
Slick came back with his second round and Thode swiftly chugged it in similar fashion, then called out, “Gimme a slapper next, Smitty!”
He settled into his creaking chair and took out a finger-sized matte gray sphere. With the push of a button as small as a fingernail, the Gadget sprung open to reveal a long-stemmed pipe made of heat-resistant ceramic metals. Rifling through another pocket in his bomber jacket, Thode withdrew a pouch of tobac leaves grown and dried right outside of Arcwatch. He crushed a couple leaves in his hand, then stuffed them into the bowl of his pipe. A spark of Fire Flux automatically lit the tobac and soon, he was contentedly puffing away.
This night was a cause for celebration.
Once Slick came back with his order, he was able to relax, letting the stress of the day get washed away with burning liquor and heady smoke. Thode happily returned to his people watching.
Aside from the table of avians, there were a pair of short, muscly Gizmerens with their characteristic pale blue skin and coal-black beards sitting at the bartop. One of them swayed in their seat, so Thode knew they were having a good night. They wore worn leather trousers tucked into ankle high boots and dusty cotton shirts, which painted a picture of laborers who were just looking to unload after a day of hard work.
Sitting opposite from his corner were two male Cinderrans with their dusky-gray skin, willowy limbs and ramrod posture. Their race always sat or stood so imperiously like they were better than everyone else. They looked down on others with their slanted red eyes, long tentacled hair and decidedly pointy ears. Thode had to admit, they also tended to have beautiful faces and lithe, shapely bodies, but that didn’t excuse their attitude. Even when he had his fun with the females of their race, they always wanted to be in control. It was well and fine on occasion, but not every time.
The last person in Smitty’s bar was a lone Gogglemoran sitting at a table by themselves. As far as Thode understood them, they were a race of hermaphrodites who evolved in the turbulent seas of Gogglemore, the fifth planet in the Fogum’s Forge star system. Because of their origins, Gogglemorans grew to be diminutive green creatures that had disproportionately large heads attached to comparatively small bodies. With eyes as bulbous as a fish and ears as pointed as a Cinderran, the only way for a Gogglemoran to come onto land was suspended within a tank filled with an aqueous solution that was carried by a large mechanical construct. This single fact meant that all Gogglemorans that lived off-world were Tinkers. Only Tinkers could hope to power such massive Gears and Gadgets that essentially kept them alive at every waking moment.
Thode hadn’t seen many Gogglemorans drink, but this one apparently imbibed liquor by submerging in it. Their mechanical arm picked up a pitcher of grog and unceremoniously dumped it straight into an opening in its fluid-filled tank. The once crystalline waters turned cloudy with booze, which the green creature then inhaled through gills in their necks, expelling purified liquid as an afterthought.
Bang on…that fragger must get drunk as a savage with a hangover to match, Thode thought, just a bit jealous.
He took a long drag of tobac from his pipe and his head suddenly felt as though it was in the clouds, the drinks finally kicking in and mixing with the smoke. Thode kicked his prosthetic feet up onto an empty chair at his table as he smiled from his euphoric haze. Another puff of his pipe and he was really feeling it.
His images of the other patrons became blurry as if he was peering through a dirty windowpane and he knew everything was really blending together now.
This was his sweet spot and his body knew what to do as he automatically refilled his pipe and ordered another slapper. He lost himself in this fugue, time slipping by like piss in the wind.
At some point he must have passed out because he abruptly woke up to some gruff voices that sounded as if they were speaking through a thick wall.
“This the grease monkey then, Castor?”
“Aye, that’s him alright. Kingford’s new errand boy and our competition for the auction. Get him up, Newt. Shift him outside.”